


Five Times They Didn't Say It, and One Time It Burned the Heart Out

by writesthrice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Male Slash, Slash, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:26:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writesthrice/pseuds/writesthrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were five times they never said it, and one time it burned the heart out of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times They Didn't Say It, and One Time It Burned the Heart Out

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is completely un-beta'd, so I'm very sorry for the mistakes that are going to be there. c: Also, I'm somewhat unhappy with this. I feel like I could've done better ... maybe I'll do another pass at it sometime.

The first time they didn’t say it, was because they didn’t know. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, paced the corners of the small room, eyes snatching greedily at every little detail of the gruesome crime, piecing it together in moments. John Watson, doctor, soldier, and Sherlock’s ever faithful friend, was watching Sherlock, his own eyes drawn to the man. He loved to watch the man work, the way his face seemed to light up.  
Greg Lestrade, detective inspector and John’s long-suffering friend, was watching both of them. He shook his head, just a tiny motion. He, and everyone else who bothered to even glance at John and Sherlock, could see the two were perfect for each other. In the area of feelings and, as the man dismissed it, “sentiment”, Sherlock was pretty dense, Greg knew. But he figured John would figure it out. Eventually.

The second time, John almost said it. Almost blurted it out between them, a shiny new discovery he made all on his own. But he caught it before it could escape, strangled it down so it died in his throat. He nearly choked on it. Sherlock was settled on the couch, long body stretched out, hands pressed flat together beneath his chin in one of his characteristic thinking poses. John was behind him, just stepped out of the kitchen, and the words had just sprung from his mind, from his heart, as he looked down at that mess of dark curls.  
The doctor could feel his heart beating too fast, knew his face was flushed, his fingers tightening around his favorite mug, the hot tea warming his palms. He was in love. With Sherlock Holmes. How had he never noticed? It seemed like love was one of those things you noticed. He discarded the thought, and desperately tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. Throw himself at the man? That seemed … dramatic.  
John had to stifle a giggle at the thought that Sherlock might appreciate the drama, if not the actual sentiment of it. His breath left in a soft, happy sigh. It didn’t matter what he did; matter of fact, for now at least, he would do nothing. He would be happy to chase after Sherlock from one end of London to the other, and pester him about food and sleep, and worry about him more than he should. More or less, nothing would change. The only change was that the doctor no longer wondered why exactly it was that he did these things. He carried the knowledge as a small flame, nestled in his heart.

The third time they didn’t say it, Sherlock had just realized it. He had caught the man’s eye, and when John smiled at him and he smiled back, the doctor’s eyes had dilated. That tiny, involuntary reaction floored Sherlock, and he had stared for a long moment, then looked away. John was in love with him.  
He wondered for how long, but he couldn’t place it, couldn’t find the little line in their lives where John had switched from being his friend to being in love with him. He began to comb over their lives the past few months, but there was no demarcation, no shift in routine, and no change between them. It was driving the detective mad. He knew that John had not always been in love with him, and he should have been able to look back and find the exact moment that the doctor had fallen in love.  
It should have been obvious. Every other time someone had come into John’s life there had been new clothes, a new cologne, something different to mark the occasion as the man tried to alter himself that little bit to make himself ‘better’ for the other person.  
Ah. John didn’t need to change anything; he had been perfect when he moved in, hadn’t needed to change clothes or hair or scent. In an instant, he had become Sherlock’s friend and shadow – where Sherlock was, one needn’t look too far for John. They might as well have already been in a relationship, all this time. Most people thought they were anyway.  
Sherlock glanced up at John, a direct look that caught the doctor and pinned him where he stood, eyes wide and breath short. Those unforgivable, sentimental, undeniable words hung in the air between them, making two hearts beat faster.

The fourth time they didn’t say it, they were afraid. Their friendship had changed into something entirely new, something filled with hesitant touches and sentences left unfinished. They didn’t think this new and fragile thing between them could handle the stress of holding up those heavy words.  
They kissed for the first time while watching crap telly, Sherlock’s head pillowed in John’s lap. John was laughing, his whole face lit up with it, and Sherlock had just leaned up, claimed those lips for his own. The doctor completely forgot about the show he’d been watching, hands coming up to cup Sherlock’s face, thumbs stroking over sharp cheek bones, and he’d returned the kiss in kind, deepening it.  
They made love on the floor in the living room, right there, the telly forgotten in the background. They moved together like they were made for each other, chests sliding against one another, hands exploring boldly, mouths following. Sherlock had kissed every one of John’s scars, pressed his tongue to them as if to take the old pain away. He threw back his head and moaned when John slid inside of him, his pulse jumping in his neck, and the doctor had moaned with him, fingers digging into sharp hips and holding them both still. After a few moments, Sherlock gave an impatient movement, lifting his legs to lock around John’s waist, and then they were moving against each other in urgency. Sherlock pulled John down, teeth clamping hard on the juncture of shoulder and neck, his muscles clenching hard around the doctor as he came. John was half a breath behind, Sherlock’s name a growl from his throat, his hands clenching harder on the man under him. They curled together in exhausted release, and slept on the floor, a blanket tugged over them.  
Later, John would find a bruise in the shape of Sherlock’s mouth on his neck. He wore the mark proudly, and didn’t have to explain anything.

The fifth time they didn’t say it, was because they didn’t need to. It was there, in every look, every touch, every little gesture. Sherlock reduced the more grotesque of his experiments and completely cut out the ones that might make the flat stink for more than an hour or so. He even started eating a little better, sleeping a little more, just to ease John’s mind. John didn’t change much of anything; he didn’t need to. He already treated Sherlock like a king. The only change for John was the freedom to put his hands on the other man. The detective was entirely free of social limitation, and so there was no fuss about public hand-holding or kissing; they just did it, and if anyone dared to say something about it, they’d feel what it was like to be purposefully humiliated by Sherlock Holmes. All in all, John and Sherlock were blissfully happy.

 

John was staring across a rooftop at Jim Moriarty. The psychopath had coerced him into coming alone, Sherlock safe at home, and his doctor on a roof with a madman. John was afraid, terribly afraid. Moriarty was telling him that he was weak, that he made Sherlock weak, but it wasn’t that that was scaring the former soldier so badly. He knew that he’d been gone for too long, now. His phone had vibrated half a dozen times in the past minute, texts from Sherlock. Any minute now, his detective would be coming for him.  
And it was a trap.  
Moriarty was in John’s face without warning. “Are you listening to me?! You have to die, John. You have to die, so Sherlock can be free.”  
John’s lips were stiff, cold or fear, it didn’t matter. “No.”  
Moriarty only laughed. “You poor, poor thing. If you don’t die, he will.”  
Almost on cue, John’s phone rang. He jumped. Sherlock never phoned. He ignored it, heart pounding, watching Moriarty. John couldn’t let him hurt Sherlock. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.  
The madman could see it in John’s face. He was pleased. “There, there, John. It’ll be painless. Mostly. And quick. Probably.” He slipped his arm companionably over John’s shoulder; the doctor stood stiffly, unyielding. “You will do exactly as I say, or the man I have following Sherlock will kill him. Painfully and slowly. Do you understand?” He didn’t wait for John’s nod.  
“You will answer the next time Sherlock calls, and you will tell him you love him. Then you will jump off of this roof, and plummet to your death. If my men have any reason to believe you are not dead, they will kill Sherlock. If my men think you have somehow pulled off some sort of disappearing act, they will kill Sherlock. And it will be your fault.”  
With that, the man stepped away. John reached for the gun, instinct and anger making him grab at it. He would have made Moriarty call off the men. Could have made him. The man whirled out of reach, put the gun to his temple, and pulled the trigger.  
The ground fell out from under John. The ringing phone brought him back with a jerk, and he fumbled it from his pocket, nearly dropping it.  
“John!” Sherlock’s voice was loud and angry and afraid. “Why are you on the roof? Are you okay? Why didn’t you answer my texts?”  
John didn’t bother asking how Sherlock knew where he was; he knew his phone could be traced. He didn’t bother answering any of the other man’s questions. He stepped to the side of the roof and looked down. Sherlock was standing on the other side of the street, looking up at him, his coat swirling dramatically around his feet.  
“What are you doing, John?”  
“I love you.”  
“John?! Please don't-”  
He stepped off the roof, his last sight a pale face gone rigid in terror. He didn’t really feel it when he hit the ground, and it didn’t take long for the darkness to consume him. Moriarty was right; painless and quick. Mostly.


End file.
